Morphine for the Heart
by Miffy Buttons
Summary: Hurt/comfort fill written for Anon on the KM. Takes place immediately after Rorschach kills Grice. Nite Owl II finds his partner in an unstable state.


The smell of gasoline and char is still strong in his nose, trapped beneath the fabric of his mask. He chokes on it, swallowing hard and tasting smoke. It's hard to breathe. His eyes burn, but it's not because of the fire. His cheeks are damp, mask clinging to his skin, but it's not because the heat has made him sweat.

He turns away from the burning building and walks, no real destination in mind. He has to get away from...from _this_. There's something roiling inside of him, black and dense and terrible, and he needs to get away from it.

He knows he can't. He walks anyway.

_Dead_, he thinks, the word so heavy in his mind that he stumbles. _Dead_.

Buildings move past him; brick, graffiti, apartment doors. The city slides along with cold indifference, and he is standing still; weighed down by something that's slowly working its way up from his guts and clenching a merciless fist in his throat. He inhales deeply to work the fist loose, and his lungs fill with the smell of blood and ash. Tendrils of fresh memory curl through him, dragging at the tattered edges, and the roiling blackness inside starts leaking out. The city goes dark.

_Dead_.

* * *

Nite Owl can hear a firetruck in the distance, and he can just barely make out the plume of smoke that rises over the city skyline. It's not his area to patrol tonight, but he's considering making the detour anyway. His night has been blessedly uneventful; a mugging, attempted store robbery... Small things that are taken care of with ease and efficiency. He'll check out the fire, and then call it a night.

He sets Archie down on a rooftop, two blocks away from the fire. He'll get a look at what's going on first, and bring the owlship around if things are out of control. Though judging by what he can see from the roof, the fire is small, and the fire department was just as unoccupied as him. Slow night all around.

He's just stepped off the last rung of the building's fire escape, when a familiar silhouette walks through his peripheral vision. He turns, but his partner hasn't stopped. Nite Owl hurries out into the street to catch up.

Rorschach hasn't gone far.

He's moving uncertainly, hunched in on himself and stumbling. His hands shake and knot into fists at his side. Nite Owl is just behind him now, reaching out a hand out to touch his partner's shoulder. But he's misinterpreted this strange behavior for anger and hesitates. Maybe the man wants to be left alone. Fingers curl away from the leather of the trench coat, and then Dan hears it;

"Dead," Rorschach gasps. Nite Owl can barely make out the word, but something about how it was said begins to twist in his gut.

Rorschach has stopped walking.

This time Nite Owl grips his partner's shoulder firmly, a frown settling over his lips. Something is very wrong. "Hey, are you...?"

He doesn't finish his question. There's a sound that's distracted him, and he can't quite place it. It's a quiet rasping, like someone who's run too far, short of breath, trying to breathe through a mouthful of dust. It hitches, and Rorschach's shoulders twitch in time with it. Nite Owl puts it together. It's the sound of someone trying not to sob. His stomach lurches. _Rorschach_ is making that sound.

"God..." Nite Owl pulls his partner around so they're facing each other, shoving his goggles up on his forehead. "My God, Rorschach, what _happened_?"

* * *

Pitch black is rolling through the streets, eating them alive. There are no streetlights, no lit windows. The city is drowning in black ash and blood. He stands in the darkness and feels himself emptying out. His insides writhe in the gutter.

Monsters. Vile. Unforgivable.

Dead.

No. No no no no _no_.

He feels like filth beneath his mask; another gaping wound, sutured shut too carelessly, too messily, slowly oozing the accumulated infection of this city's ugly truth. Humanity has a terminal disease. Little girls are dying.

He's been too optimistic, stupid really, but he sees it now.

Symmetrical shadows slide over his vision, and the darkness gets darker.

Someone grips his shoulders.

_Rorschach, what happened?_

The symmetry pulls itself into a different shape, moving out of sight. The city is back. Nite Owl- no, just Daniel -is staring at him, brows knit tight, worried hands bruising, even through the layers of cloth.

* * *

"Are you hurt, sick?" Dan's asking, trying to keep his voice calm. He's getting nothing at all from Rorschach, nothing but strained breathing and that gut-wrenching choked-back sob. Dan can't imagine what could have done this to him. "Come on buddy, anything. Nod your head, Christ, put me through a window if you need to, but give me _something_."

Slowly, very slowly, his partner looks up. Dan can hear his breathing begin to even out. He's unwinding by fractions. Good, good. Keep talking to him, bring him around. "Hey, I've got you, alright? I've got you. Tell me what happened."

Eventually Rorschach takes one long, shaky breath, and manages, "Roche. Murdered, Daniel. Dead."

Dan stares at him for a long time, the grip on his partner's shoulders tightening. Blaire Roche. Rorschach had talked about that case, was adamant about finding the girl and getting her home. It was the only thing he had been focusing on, the only thing he'd spoken to Daniel about in days. And now... Now...

He swallows, mouth suddenly dry, and tries to find the words he needs.

"...That's... Hell, Rorschach, I... I mean..." Floundering, Dan shakes his head, lips pressed tight. Rorschach's mask seems to shift in silent expectation, hurting, waiting. Dan tries again.

"I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry."

Against all his better judgment, Daniel pulls his partner in close. He puts his arms around Rorschach and holds him, and can't think of a damn thing that will make this better. Narrow shoulders relax, just barely, under the embrace.

"It's okay," Dan mumbles, still trying to find words that feel right. "It's okay."

"No," his partner is shaking in his arms, but that voice is strangely steady by comparison. "It isn't."

* * *

They stand there for a long time, silence conveying the hurt more loudly than words.

After a while, Rorschach puts his arms around Daniel.

It isn't okay.

But right now, Daniel feels like a little bit of morphine.


End file.
